Our games
by Feej
Summary: His flat smelled of cigarettes. No. Not good. The bloody kid better not be smoking in his flat!


Disclaimer: don't own...

Also: not meant to be slash, but feel free to squint or use goggles if you want to :)

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><p><strong>Our game.<strong>

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><p>His flat smelled of cigarettes. No. Not good. The bloody kid better not be smoking in <em>his<em> flat. As if letting him use the place (using his eardrums as musical punching bags with that damn violin of his, that is) wasn't enough.

He was about to shout one of his more evil comments – about Sherlock smoking in his flat specifically, and about Sherlock being a Great Big Git in general – when he almost tripped over said violin at the threshold of the living room.

He stopped abruptly, quickly scanning the room. He narrowed his eyes at what he saw, and breathed in to try and calm himself, lower the heartbeat that had shot up at the sight. He cautiously stepped over the violin, entering the room.

"Smoking is bad for you," he told the relaxed form of Jim Moriarty, sitting on his sofa.

"So is Sherlock," the man replied, lazily letting the smoke escape from between his lips, gesturing to the still form of _his_ Sherlock, spread out on the same sofa. Lestrade resisted the urge to rush over and check for a pulse. Still breathing. Albeit too shallowly for Lestrade's liking.

"What have you done to him?"

"I hardly think that is important, is it, my dear inspector? Although it _did_ hit him just a teensy bit harder than I expected. He is not as resilient as I figured he would be." He nodded at Lestrade, a disapproving frown hovering over his face, "Your work, I presume?"

"Hardly," Lestrade couldn't quite keep the wave of pride from surging through him.

Moriarty smiled a disturbingly familiar smile, winking at Lestrade. "He seemed so relaxed in here, I caught him awfully off guard, you know."

"What do you want?" the DI snapped.

"Ah, impatient, are we?" That damn smile again. Lestrade's fists clenched at his side, all his muscles tensed, whole body ready to lunge forward.

"Nononono, my dear inspector," Moriarty's smile disappeared, and was replaced by a dangerous flicker of the eyes, lowered brows, and Lestrade's eyes caught a flash of steel, too close to Sherlock's neck.

His eyes widened. _No._

"Now that I have your full attention, I'd like to have a little chat." Moriarty curled his now empty fingers around a few strands of inky black hair. Lestrade's entire being screamed at him to react, to attack, to _kill_.

He merely nodded.

"You see, people have warned you away from Sherlock Holmes." When he received nothing but a death glare in response, the man just shrugged and continued, "I most urgently advise you to take their advice to heart, inspector. You see," his hands hovered just over Sherlock's head in an almost gentle gesture "Sherlock and I, we were made for each other." He glanced over at Lestrade, who stood, watched, frozen. "I don't appreciate one of you," a slight – no, it shouldn't be that familiar! – wrinkle of the nose "_boring_ little people, interfering in our games."

"Your games."

"_Our_ games, inspector," again, that almost tender look thrown at the unmoving detective, "don't pretend you don't recognize it."

Lestrade drew a deep breath. "This was only ever your game, James, not his."

Moriarty's eyes flashed dangerously, again, achingly familiar in the way they sparked with anger. Lestrade still shook his head, "Not Sherlock's."

Moriarty stood, strolling towards the DI, an almost predatory look on his face. "Believe what you will, inspector," he said merrily. And then, in a tone that held no trace of humor anymore, "just _back off," _his face contorting in an ugly scowl at the last words.

Lestrade didn't flinch, and didn't step back: _no I won't._

Moriarty sniffed disdainfully: _your loss._

Moriarty left.

Lestrade cursed. Eloquently, and creatively.

He rushed over to the figure on the sofa, who's breathing had become shallower every minute Jim Moriarty had wasted of his time. It took John two minutes to get to Lestrade's flat. It took Mycroft five minutes to gather and send all the footage that could give _any _clue as to where the criminal mastermind had buggered off to. It took Sherlock three hours to wake up, fighting through the haze of whatever drug he had been given.

It had taken Lestrade half a second to make up his mind, holding the consulting detective, forcing air into his lungs, as he remembered Moriarty's smile, Moriarty's wrinkled nose, and Moriarty's _games_.

_Not Sherlock's._

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><p><strong>Thank you for reading, and many thanks to Sidney for the prompt of 'Moriarty paying some long overdue attention to Lestrade'! :D<strong>

Please keep throwing them at me ;) _  
><em>


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